


both your hands in the holes of my sweater

by yvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Manchester United, Sharing Clothes, Sunday League Football AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/yvenger
Summary: Jesse had been with the Salford Lions for over a year before Marcus joined.Jesse stood out. He wore too-thin shirts and complained about the cold. He wore nail polish occasionally, frequently chipped. He very openly flirted with other guys in front of the rest of the team and no one even batted an eyelash.or,Marcus has a crush the size of a football pitch and he doesn't know what to do about it





	both your hands in the holes of my sweater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liefde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liefde/gifts).



> alternatively titled 'what if Manchester United was actually a queer Sunday League team coached by Paul Scholes' 
> 
> Dear giftee,  
> your prompt expanded way beyond the boundaries of what you initially requested and I hope you don't get too mad at me about it. I loved writing it like this and I hope you like it too.
> 
> Title from The Neighbourhood's Sweater weather.
> 
> This fic includes a description of an asthma attack that might share some symptoms with a panic attack, so please be careful if you're sensitive to that.

 

“If you keep coming in early to practice, coach will start thinking you like being here.”

 

Marcus looked up from where he was lacing up his boots to where Jesse was standing, grinning in the doorway of the dressing room. As he’d spent the past hour preparing himself for being confronted with said grin, Marcus was hardly affected by it. His heartbeat just sped up a little bit. Like, the littlest bit.

 

“I do like being here,” Marcus said, looking down to neatly loop the shoelaces and reaching for the shin guards that were probably definitely overkill for a Sunday league practice session. Then again, with the way Marouane kept clattering into his own teammates during actual games, he might as well take every possible precaution. 

 

Jesse snorted, drawing Marcus’s eye back to him. “Really?” he said with a raised eyebrow and a nod to the room around them. “Why?”

 

Marcus could see his point. The dressing room boasted faded yellow walls that definitely weren’t originally that color, creaky benches, and lockers that barely had any functional hooks. You’d probably get a fungal infection in the showers if you wore shoes, much less went barefoot, and the toilet always had a leak.

 

Ander and Marcus had just entered the room, arguing loudly over something in high pitched Spanish, and Wazza sat on one of the benches with a suspiciously satisfied expression on his face, which meant that Marcus had about a minute before the smell reached where he was sitting. Any moment now, the rest of the squad would enter, coming in from their mundane jobs at the docks or in the offices and the room would descend into total chaos.

 

“It certainly isn’t the company,” Marcus said, as Jesse sat down on the bench next to him, hyper-aware of the way his denim-clad knee brushed against his bare leg. 

 

“Liar,” Jesse said, with another dimpled smile, “the company is the only thing that makes this even slightly bearable.”

 

It’s in that moment that the door slammed open and the rest of their rag-tag group of players piled in, and the room became a loud sweaty mess of bodies. Marcus dared to casually tap his hand on Jesse’s elbow and promptly escaped out and into the cold Manchester air.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  


Marcus hadn't as much chosen to play in the Salford Lions as he was blackmailed into doing it. 

 

He’d been working for the summer, doing some deliveries for Hotel Football to earn some pocket money before uni started up again. It wasn’t a bad job and he was in shape enough that biking all over Salford didn’t seem like a daunting task. He’d even be able to kick around a football while waiting on another delivery, sometimes even joined by other staff. 

 

Mostly, however, he was alone and providing his own color commentary.

 

“And here’s Rashford, lining up to take the free kick for United,” Marcus muttered under his breath as he was lining up the shot. His backpack was weighing him down since he hadn’t bothered leaving it in the locker room, and the two parallel trashcans he’d set up for goalposts were hardly up to their job.

 

Still, it’s moments like these that made him feel like a kid again, and life was still one long endless possibility.

 

He took the shot, foot connecting with the football in exactly the right place, sending it into a perfect graceful arc, sailing into the air with just the slightest curve that…

 

...missed the target entirely, thunking loudly into the upper floor glass windows.

 

“Fuck,” Marcus said, right before the back door of the restaurant opened wide and something small and furiously red came darting out to grab his wrist, dragging him inside the building before anyone could open the window and complain.

 

Unfortunately, small and furiously red turned out to be a guy named Paul, who Marcus happened to know was very close friends with Director Neville, who was in charge of Hotel Football and also Marcus’s paycheck.

 

Friend Paul was also glaring at him, which was surprisingly intimidating for a man that was so ginger.

 

“I’m so sorry-” Marcus started, only to be immediately cut off.

 

“Join my Sunday League team,” Paul said, his glare unwavering. “We’re short a forward and the games start next week.”

 

“Excuse me,” Marcus said, less a question and more like an exhalation at the very sudden change in topic.

 

“We’re called the Salford Lions. We have jerseys this year,” Paul said, in a tone that was probably meant to be enticing but was rather too similar to his menacing one and therefore failed in its desired effect.

 

“I can’t,” Marcus squeaked out, “I, uh, I have work.” 

 

This was a lie and Paul seemed to know it.

 

“We meet at the David Lewis Recreation Grounds,” Paul said, unwavering. “Come tomorrow, at 7 pm.”

 

“I really don’t think-” Marcus started, starting to feel indignant.

 

“Come, or I’ll tell  _ my best friend, _ ” there was a strange emphasis on that, “that you were the one that broke one of his floor length windows with a football.”

 

“I didn’t break it!” Marcus protested.

 

“Those windows are his pride and joy,” Paul continued, undeterred, “I’m sure he’ll be eager to find the culprit. If you look at this way, I’m doing you a favor.”

 

And so with his paycheck on the line, Marcus capitulated. “Fine,” he hissed out, and then was blissfully saved from Paul’s gloating look by another call for a delivery.

  
  


*

  
  


“Come on, lads, we’ve gone quiet!” Paul thundered from the edge of the field, marking the only time the man really spoke in a tone that wasn’t a furious whisper. It was actually a fairly useless observation since the Salford Lions had so far been comfortably cruising through the game with a 5:0 lead.

 

The team was all sorts of chaotic, but on the field, they were actually marginally better than most of the league, a testament to how most of them had been a part of the football academy system for any number of years.

 

“Get a head on this!” Marouane howled as he lined up for a free kick, one of the rare phrases he could speak in English with perfect pronunciation. Marcus, luckily, had an available head.

 

The ball bounced almost neatly into the box and off Marcus’s head, whizzing past the opponent’s goalkeeper to land into the net. There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone digested the rare beauty of a goal that wasn’t the result of a goalie fumble, and then it was time to appropriately celebrate.

 

“Good job, lad!” Wazza bellowed, sweeping Marcus into a sweaty hug, followed by the rest of their teammates, and for a moment, Marcus was crushed in the throng and failing to get any air into his lungs. 

 

His thoughts darted to the inhaler in his bag, too far away from the field, and the embarrassment of having to ask someone to fetch it for him, but then the bodies moved away and the pressure in his chest receded, and he could breathe again. A false alarm. A reminder to keep his inhaler closer next time, because he was never good at telling when an attack was coming on.

 

Jesse stayed behind as the rest of the squad moved slowly back into position, and he threw his arm briefly around Marcus’s shoulder, squeezing.

 

“That was pretty,” he said, with a dimpled smile, “almost as pretty as you.”

 

And then he was gone, jogging back into midfield and Marcus couldn’t manage to catch his breath for an entirely different reason.

  
  


*

  
  


Jesse had been with the Salford Lions for over a year before Marcus joined. He’d apparently been one of the first members, tracked down by Paul after a doubtlessly illegal list of former Manchester United academy players found its way into his hands. 

 

He stood out from the other guys. He wore too-thin shirts and complained about the cold. He tried too hard to make people laugh and then insisted he wasn’t funny. He wore nail polish occasionally, frequently chipped. He very openly flirted with other guys in front of the rest of the team and no one even batted an eyelash at it.

 

The first time Marcus saw him do it, he froze, choking quietly on his mouthful of beer. 

 

“He’s well fit, isn’t he?” Jesse remarked to a table full of their teammates, staring at a man at the bar.

 

There was a long moment of silence. Marcus began looking for the exits.

 

Then the whole table turned at the same time, descending into chaos as the attempted to find the man Jesse was talking about.

 

“Is it the tall one, ordering a drink?” Luke said, squinting.

 

“No, no, it’s the bald one in the corner!” Ander said, and Jesse hit him in the stomach.

 

“As if!” he said.

 

The rest continued debating the man.

 

“He’s wearing a weird hat,” Pogs said, ignoring the fact that at that exact point in time he was wearing a beret with a baguette pin on it.

 

“I think that’s his hair,” Luke said, thoughtfully.

 

Through all of this, Marcus was watching Wayne, his face screwed up in a frown. “I dunno, mate,” he finally said, scouse thick in his vowels, “he looks kind of like a fuckboy.”

 

It’s at that exact moment that the man turned around and the table full of grown manly men shrieked and attempted to unsubtly crawl under the table until the man looked away. 

 

Once the conversation had moved on to other topics, Jesse had caught Marcus’s eye and winked. 

 

“You don’t have to worry about it,” he said, in a quiet voice that Marcus had to strain to hear over the din, “the guys are pretty cool.”

 

Embarrassed at being caught out, Marcus nodded quickly, feeling his face grow hotter the longer Jesse watched him. He never brought it up and he never saw anyone bring it up either. Especially once it became clear that Ander and Marcos always went home together, and that Pogs talked much too fondly about his friend Pat, who was either his very rich uncle or some sort of sugar daddy. Marcus wasn’t sure about anything, except that the rainbow flag someone had subtly snuck into their team logo wasn’t there just for show.

  
  


*

  
  


Jesse was wearing Marcus’s sweater.

 

This wasn’t really that much of an issue. Marcus had a jacket with him too, which was more than adequate to combat the cool evening air, the sweater was just extra, an echo of his mum’s warnings more than something he actually needed.

 

But now Jesse was wearing it, the dark red material snug against his torso and the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. It really was cold, and Marcus hadn’t seen him bring in anything warmer. If Jesse had asked, he would have definitely lent him the sweater. He hadn’t asked though. Was Marcus supposed to feel upset about that? He didn’t feel upset exactly but-

 

As he watched, Jesse tilted his head to rub his cheek gently against the material of the sweater. It was soft, Marcus knew. And it probably smelled too, he didn’t remember when he washed it last.

 

Jesse looked up and caught him staring. Instead of apologizing, or even saying anything to him at all, he grinned, wide and cheeky, and hollered for the rest of the lads to get a move on.

 

“Tell Wazza to stop working on his hair, it’s hopeless! And we’re freezing our balls off out here.”

 

The ensuing stampede of their teammates didn’t let Marcus get close to him again. Not that he’d know what to say to him in the first place.

  
  


*

  
  


The thing is, Jesse was the kind of guy that Marcus would go for if he had, like, unlimited confidence. Jesse was handsome and built, and he knew how to dress, even if he's not quite seemed to figure out what coats were for. He was also funny and friendly, and warm, and the appearance of his smile made Marcus want to study jokes just so he could see it as often as possible.

 

He was the kind of guy that Marcus had an asthma attack while trying to flirt with, ultimately having to retreat into a dark corner of the pub to use his inhaler and then never saw again. 

 

Jesse was the kind of guy that Marcus saw at Pride, or at a gay bar, or anywhere else, and immediately deemed out of his league.

 

And it was doubly confusing to hear him give compliments, or lean into Marcus’s shoulder at training, or prance around in Marcus’s sweater like he wasn’t aware of the distinction. Like maybe Marcus was someone he could somehow like back.

  
  


*

  
  


Marcus was never a big drinker, but something about that evening - the win they’d barely snatched from one of the strongest teams in the league, about Jesse in his sweater - made him more willing to indulge when Luke placed a pint in front of him. And another. And another.

 

And then, through vision that was just the tiniest bit hazier than usual, he spotted Jesse talking to a guy at the bar. 

 

Talking to a guy, with his head tilted and his mouth pursed in what Marcus had learned was his flirting pose. So Jesse was flirting with a guy, wearing Marcus’s sweater. And if the latter hadn’t been the case, or if he hadn’t gotten a pint over his limit, maybe he could have let it go. 

 

Tonight, he got up, striding through the crowd towards Jesse, and stopping by his side to put an arm around his waist. 

 

“Hey,” he said, as Jesse turned towards him, pout melting into surprise, “I came to see if you needed any help with the drinks. The guys are getting impatient.”

 

That part was the truth, though Pogs had left to get another round just a few minutes before and was actually waiting on the other side of the bar. 

 

“Oh, sorry, I was just talking to…” Jesse said, looking behind him, only to realize the guy he’d been talking to was already gone, “...a guy. Why did you do that?”

 

Marcus ignored his question. Someone jostled him from behind, bringing him in closer to Jesse, close enough to feel his breath as he exhaled. 

 

“You’re wearing my sweater,” he said instead of answering, tugging on the bottom of it, distracted by the way it looked against his hand, by the way his hand looked on Jesse’s hip.

 

“I borrowed it,” Jesse said, grinning playfully, “but it’s so soft and warm, I don’t think I’ll be giving it back.”

 

“Well, I-” Marcus started, unsure of what he was going to say. Jesse’s body leaned towards him and Marcus’s hand slipped from his skin under the edge of the sweater, under his shirt to the bare skin beneath. They both froze. Something constricted in Marcus’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

 

Jesse was close enough that he could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes and the pale line of a faint scar just above his cheekbone. His skin was shockingly warm against Marcus’s fingers, soft against his callouses.

 

“I…” Marcus started, watching Jesse take a deep breath. He tried to take one too, suddenly realized he couldn’t breathe around the knot in his chest, and panicked. “I can’t breathe.”

 

Jesse’s expression melted into concern and he reached out to grasp Marcus’s hand. “Where’s your inhaler?” he asked, cutting through the fear rapidly starting to descend on Marcus’s mind.

 

“My bag,” Marcus managed to gasp out, “at the table.”

 

And then Jesse was pulling him through the crowd, making room with his body they could slip through, which was good, because Marcus couldn’t even seem to think, much less find their table. 

 

He was gently pushed into a chair, listening to the concerned voices of their teammates above him, and then his inhaler was pushed into his hands, his nerveless fingers clutching around it. The rest was instinct. Find the mouthpiece, exhale, put it in his mouth, press. Breathe. Count to thirty seconds, feel the coolness turn bitter in the back of his tongue. Press again. Inhale. Breathe.

 

Slowly, the pressure on his chest lightened. His lungs cleared and he could inhale deeply. He became aware of the music around him, voices engaged in intelligible conversation. A hand, gently rubbing his back. 

 

“I’m okay,” he muttered, “I’m okay now.”

 

The hand on his back stopped its motion and he opened his eyes, found Jesse, concerned and lovely. “I can breathe now,” he told him, the words feeling weird in his mouth. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re okay,” Jesse said on an exhale, and it seemed to be more to reassure himself than Marcus. “Do you need something else? Water?”

 

Marcus nodded and Jesse seemed to produce a glass of water out of nowhere. It took off some of the bitterness from his mouth and brought reality trickling in.

 

“Marcus?” Jesse said, quiet and gentle, and lovely.

 

Marcus opened his mouth. “Can we get out of here?” he asked, the words not quite filtered by his brain.

 

“Yes, of course,” Jesse said and then he was helping Marcus into his jacket before he could protest. “I’ve got your bag.”

 

The first breath of fresh air after the stuffy pub hurt a little because it was so cold outside, it felt like it was slicing into his lungs. 

 

“You didn’t have to leave with me,” Marcus said, quietly, looking at Jesse. “I think I’ll just go home.”

 

“I’ll walk you,” Jesse said, firmly, and Marcus didn’t really want to argue, so he didn’t.

 

They walked close together, avoiding the crowds from the pubs and nightclubs that were spilling onto the street despite the chill. The people thinned out as they moved away from the busier streets, but they didn’t move apart.

 

If anything, they got closer as the night seemed to grow colder, until eventually Marcus was looking up at his flat and listening to Jesse’s trainers scrape on the pavement.

 

“I’m sorry about before,” Marcus said, finally breaking the silence. He was entirely sober now and feeling mortified about the way he’d acted.

 

“It’s okay,” Jesse said, grinning, “you could say I took your breath away.”

 

“That’s an awful joke,” Marcus told him but laughed anyway.

 

When his laughter trailed off, they were left with an awkward silence. Jesse’s grin slid off his face. He exhaled and the sound felt so sharp it made Marcus flinch and look at him.

 

“I should give this back,” Jesse said, lifting the hem of his sweater as if to pull it off.

 

“No!” Marcus cut him off sharply, stilling the motion with his hands on Jesse’s.

 

Jesse froze, staring at him. Then he muttered a curse under his breath and moved Marcus’s hands so they were resting on his hips. “You’re really giving me mixed signals here, you know?” he said, wryly.

 

“What?” Marcus asked, struggling to process anything that wasn’t his hands on Jesse’s hipbones and Jesse’s hands on his.

 

“I’ve been dropping hints for months now,” Jesse said, hints of a pout around his mouth, “and you haven’t been picking up any of them. And then tonight you act like a jealous boyfriend-”

 

“I’m so sorry about that,” Marcus interjected. 

 

“What are you sorry about?” Jesse asked, frowning. “I wanted you to.”

 

“What,” Marcus said.

 

“What,” Jesse answered mockingly. “Wait, you really didn’t realize?”

 

“Realize what?” Marcus asked, endlessly confused. Jesse stared at him for a moment and then sighed.  

 

“You know what, never mind,” Jesse said, backing away and pulling the sweater over his head. 

 

“Wait,” Marcus said, following, grabbing at the hem of the sweater, starting a weird tug-o-war as they wrestled with the material, “explain this to me. Use small words if you have to because I have no idea what’s going on.”

 

Jesse shook his head and muttered, “Fuck it,” under his breath. 

 

And then his fingers were cold on Marcus’s flushed cheeks, and there was nothing tentative in the way he kissed him. Jesse tasted like beer and he smelled like Marcus’s cologne, and Marcus forgot to think about anything else and just kissed him back.

 

“Oh, fuck me,” Marcus said when they finally separated, feeling dizzy and unable to tear his eyes away from Jesse’s mouth.

 

“I’ve been trying,” Jesse said, cheekily, giving him a smile that made Marcus’s whole body heat up. “Pogs said I should have kissed you weeks ago, but I’d figured you’d work it out.”

 

“I think I got the message now,” Marcus said, still staring. They were standing close in the shadowed corner of the street, Jesse’s hands around his shoulders and Marcus’s still twisted up in that damn sweater. 

 

“So?” Jesse asked.

 

“So,” Marcus repeated, slowly, “you could come up if you wanted.”

 

Jesse laughed. “You’re right, I should take a look at your closet,” he said. 

 

“My closet?” Marcus asked, confused.

 

“So I can figure out which sweater I want to take next,” Jesse answered promptly, and his grin was so dumbly self-satisfied that Marcus just had to kiss him again.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> \- Sunday League Football describes the association football leagues which play on Sunday. These leagues tend to be lower standard amateur competitions, whose players have less time to devote to football. The term pub league may also be used, owing to the number of public houses that enter teams.  
> \- some of the phrases in this were directly taken from [A guide to the language of Sunday League Football](https://www.theguardian.com/sport/football-cliches/2013/oct/31/talking-language-sunday-league-football) posted in the Guardian which is an excellent article


End file.
